Denial
by Monniemoo
Summary: Mello won't let anything - sex, violence, his hated rival, or even his best friend - get in the way of his goals. Mello's story after he leaves Wammy's House. Rated for language.
1. Prologue

One night, a long time ago, I spent an entire night memorizing twenty definitions for the word "life." The word was to be on a vocabulary quiz the next day. Most of the students wrote it off as the easiest word, one to which the definition would come naturally. I knew better, and I knew that my rival would as well. The only thing I could think of to garner the better grade was to devise the most thorough definition to this simple word.

It turned out that there was only enough room on the quiz for one definition. I was furious, and I spent most of the time carefully choosing between the twenty. The one I finally chose was "the sequence of physical and mental experiences that make up the existence of an individual; one or more aspects of the process of living." I got full points, extra credit even, but it didn't matter. I still lost. My constant enemy managed to get more extra credit than I did. Ever since then, I considered his definition to be the one true definition of the word.

I was wrong, though. Both of those definitions were wrong. Looking back, believing that I have experienced life myself, the most appropriate definition I can find happens to be half of the fifth definition I learned all those years ago. Life, as I have learned, is "a specific phase of earthly existence; the period from an event until death." With this definition in mind, I have lived two lives within my one biological experience.

This account is in a way my autobiography, my life story. The event in question was my decision to leave the place where I grew up. I will not be able to take the reader through to my death, but I can take you as close as possible, as I know it is soon at hand.

I hope that in making this account, it is my first life that I will see flashing before my eyes when I do die, when I go to wait for that pathetic bastard of a killer in hell.


	2. One

Work with Near? Never.

There was only one thing I have ever believed to be certain: I should be the next L. It had been my goal ever since Roger explained the purpose of Wammy's House to me. That was before Near came, of course.

Near took everything from me. He took my title, my dream, my dignity. He was the enemy, and I could never work with him. I had to beat him, to regain everything he had taken from me, to win.

These were my thoughts as I stormed up to my room, ignoring everything that surrounded me, and locked the door behind me.

I gave up. Or at least, that was the first thing that flashed through my mind as I stuffed my pack full of clothing, allowances, chocolate, and whatever the hell else seemed useful from my room. I was giving up by leaving, by turning down my chance at my life's aspiration. But I hadn't given up. I never give up. This was the only option I had left if I was to preserve my dignity. That was one point on which I would never compromise.

In my rage and resignation, I almost forgot to say goodbye to Matt. He didn't even come to mind until I found myself tearing down the photo of us I had taped to the wall. It was the only photo I had actually allowed to remain in this world. I remembered destroying Linda's film once because she had taken one photo where the back of my head was visible. I wasn't sorry, even though it had cost me a month's worth of allowance to replace the film. That bitch sure learned her lesson.

There were only two photos of me in existence that my idiotic fourteen-year-old mind could think of: the one I had just taken down and stuffed into my bag and the other copy hanging in Matt's room. Something in me knew that in this world where Kira could manage to kill off L, I couldn't let anyone have a picture of me, even my best friend.

He wasn't in his room when I got there. I had to admit, I was relieved that I didn't have to face him to say goodbye. He'd bring up all that sentimental shit that I just didn't want to deal with. So instead, I locked myself in there and wrote him a note, and both of the photos were burning in his dustbin ten minutes after I should've been gone from that hellhole.

Roger must've been too busy turning Near into L to try and find me. Fine by me. I got out without anybody even giving me a second glance.

I didn't look back at the house after I left. I refused to have one of those dramatic last looks that you always see in movies when someone leaves a place forever. That would be more of the sentimental shit I was trying to avoid. I just kept walking until I reached the gate, where I found myself stopping involuntarily.

The world is huge. I mean, fucking HUGE. I really felt it when I stood there, looking out at it. I had been outside of Wammy's, of course, but never alone, and always knowing I'd come back. Now I was completely alone, and I was never coming back. It was the first and only time I ever felt like an ant.

It was the first and only time I'd looked back and realized that I had been a fucking idiot.

Twenty minutes. I was in there for twenty fucking minutes without a single person finding me. Nobody had tried to stop me from leaving that entire time. It would have been the perfect opportunity to devise a plan of where I was going to go, what I was going to do, what the hell my life would become after I left Wammy's. And instead of taking advantage of that time that had been handed to me on a silver platter, I wrote a note to Matt.

So much for avoiding sentimental shit.

I didn't have time to formulate a plan once I had realized my lack of planning, though. The fire alarm had been going off for several minutes, and they'd realize I was missing any second now. They'd know it was me.

It's not my fault that Matt's dustbin was large, empty, and metal, and that I just happened to have a large stack of schoolwork and notes I'd wanted to burn. It wasn't like it was the first time I had set a fire inside the house.

I supposed I would have to think on my feet.

As I hurried away, the sound of the fire alarm faded into the distance. It was replaced by the sounds of the city around me. Not like it was much of a city. Winchester is a hick town as far as cities go. I mean, it's still a city, but it's all spaced out and green. That's the way historical cities usually are, I guess. Lame, boring, and full of tourist traps. Not like other cities aren't full of tourist traps, too. London is chock full of them. London, however, would be a great place to go to start life on my own. Nobody would question a fourteen-year-old kid on his own there, and it wouldn't be too hard for me to find work as a dishwasher or something, just until I made bigger and better plans.

It was off to the train station, then.

It didn't take long to get to the nearest bus stop. That was quite the wait, with absolutely nothing to do but consume one of the five chocolate bars I had stuffed into my bag. It helped me clear my head. When I thought about it, I could never have really had a conclusive plan, unless I had planned in advance to leave. My naïve little mind had never conceived the possibility of L dying at the hands of Kira before a successor was decided, so I had not dreamed that I would have reason to leave Wammy's. And yet, here I was, never planning to return. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that even if I had taken those twenty minutes to plan out my future steps, I probably would have come to the same conclusion I had now: I needed to go to London to find a job.

As I boarded the bus, I realized it was a twenty-minute bus ride to a train I would ride for an hour and a half, and it was already late in the afternoon. This whole beating Near to Kira thing was going to be a long and arduous process.


	3. Two

By the time I got to London, it was dark out. The saying goes, though, that cities never sleep, and London was no exception. Light spilled from streetlamps, neon signs, barroom doors, and apartment windows. People hunched into taxis or scuttled into the Underground entrances where they were whisked away to all corners of the city. And out before me stretched miles of streets and skyscrapers, basements and alleyways, yielding endless possibilities. If it weren't for the fact that I would have been trampled by the crowds, I probably would have been frozen with awe. Instead, I exited the station and chose my route with no clear idea where I was going.

My instincts told me the first thing I needed to find was a place to stay. Unfortunately, it was unlikely that I would find anywhere to sleep at this hour. My pride would not allow me to resign immediately to sleeping in the streets, so I spent a few hours roaming, searching for nothing in particular. The chocolate in my stomach kept my mind off dinner, and I stopped in a public restroom once or twice for a drink of water from the sinks- not the healthiest plan, but water is an essential.

Finally, I wound up in a more residential area of the city, not a particularly run-down area but not apparently wealthy either. This, I decided, would be the best area to resign myself to, because I wouldn't be kicked out by rich snobs, and I wouldn't be harassed about being on someone else's turf. I preferred not to deal with the rich side of town at all, and the more run-down side of town would be better to scope out once I had somewhere to crash, instead of in the dead of night when I hardly knew the city. I was alone, homeless, and with no source of income, and I had to remember that well.

That was certainly the first thing on my mind as I ducked into a dark dead end alleyway. It was empty other than a dumpster, the trash overflowing from it, and a door, the cracks of which showed a small enough amount of light to let me know that I really didn't want to know what it was I was laying myself down on. The stench was rancid, but I could suck it up. It was just one night, anyway. I would be safe for just one night.

How wrong I was.

I seemed to have attracted an unknown visitor in the alleyway. I hadn't heard his approach, and he was about halfway between the opening and the wall when he spoke.

"Hand over the bag."

His face and body were obscured by the shadow of the light from the streets, leaving him a dark silhouette. The only thing I could make out was one arm, which he held outstretched towards me. Extending from his hand was an object that glinted silver in the light- a gun.

I was no stranger to guns. As one of L's most likely successors, I had been amply exposed to them from a young age. I left before we were taught to fire them, but Roger had made sure we saw, held, dissembled, and thoroughly examined guns of all shapes and sizes, so that when faced with them we could see them for what they truly were instead of magical death-bringers. That being said, there's nothing quite like having one pointed threateningly at you for the first time.

However.

There is something in the way a person holds a gun that can tell you a lot about him. For instance, when someone holds it like a toy, you know that you are either faced with a fake gun, an empty gun, or someone who has fired his gun so many times that he won't think twice about killing you. On the other hand, when he holds the gun delicately, his hand trembling just enough to cause the light reflecting off the weapon to flicker slightly, you know you are dealing with someone desperate, someone who may never have fired a gun at all, let alone with the intention of harming someone.

The secret to guns is that most people have no intention of firing them. For such a long time people have gotten what they want by merely wielding them. Those being threatened are so afraid of the gun being fired that they act according to the gunman's wishes, regardless of proof of a viable threat. Anyone could use an empty gun to rob a place with low enough security.

As the victims assume that the assailant will use his gun, the assailant assumes that the victims will comply based on this threat, or else call the police on him. In my situation, I had no way of calling the police. However, I had the benefit of knowing that the thief was too afraid of his gun to fire it. A swift kick to the hand and the weapon was knocked across the alleyway. It didn't take much to knock him down, and I was out on the main streets again before he had a chance to get up.

After that little escapade, I knew that sleeping in a dark alleyway like that was out of the question. What little possessions I had were my key to survival at the time, and I could not risk losing them by a poor choice of sleeping place. As soon as I had put enough distance between me and the alleyway, I took all of my money out of the pack and stuffed it down my pants- I figured if someone were to get it there, I would have more to worry about than a robbery.

I wandered a little more until I found a bench under a streetlamp where I sat down to think. I was getting more tired by the second, but I knew sleeping on a park bench was asking for trouble from the police. Eventually I decided that perhaps it would be better not to sleep at all, to keep myself awake until I could find a proper place of residence, hopefully the next day. I had pulled several all-nighters before, and though my mental faculties were diminished by a lack of sleep, I had succeeded on many tests and quizzes. Figuring motion would be the best stimulus to keep me awake, I rose to my feet and set to wandering again.

By the time the sun rose over London, I was exhausted. I realized, however, that staying up had been a good plan of action in many ways. I had seen a good portion of the city in my wanderings, and though London was large and I still had much to explore, I had at least gained a little familiarity with my surroundings. I had also located a few possible places to begin my job search in the morning. Finding a job as a homeless fourteen-year-old was not going to be easy, I knew, but it wouldn't be impossible, and at least now I had a vague idea of where I could start.

With no dinner, no sleep, and no prospect of breakfast, I steeled myself to wait for stores to begin to open, hoping one of them held my future temporary job.


End file.
